Four A.M.

At four in the morning I was the only creature in existence. Streetlights fell upon closed businesses and wet pavement. Yellow light that failed to illuminate murky puddles. Each step I took brought forth a quiet splash. I could barely feel the cold. It swirled around me, lapping at my hands and face but never penetrating my jacket. The rain had turned to snow. It fell in wet flakes that floated leisurely for a moment but melted before they hit the ground. The smell of earlier rain thickened the air, and I walked the street in silence. No other fog-laced breath could be seen, no human warmth felt. The stillness of the morning wrapped up in the stillness of winter. I had seen the street before. I had seen it in all it’s splendor, bright with voices and quickened with heartbeats. It was barely recognizable. There was no sound save that of slush splattering the pavement. The coldest part of the night had passed but the glow of morning was not yet visible. I stood in the calm between storms. Those brief moments when all late wandering souls had retreated at last to seek warmth and solace and those who claim the morning had, as the sun, not yet risen to join me. I stood within that delicate balance, taking in everything and nothing. This reprieve would not last long; such peace cannot exist in anything but the smallest of quantities.